Book of Invasions
by SilverSpring
Summary: Rated T. Eventual E/E.
1. Chapter 1

**The Book Of Invasions.**

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _The_ _ **Lebor Gabála Érenn,**_ _or_ _ **The Book of Invasions**_ _,_ is a written account of the history of Ireland which has since passed into legend. The album ' _ **The Book of Invasions: A Celtic Symphony' by Horslips**_ tells the story of the _Tuatha Dé Danann_ , an ancient tribe of kings and queens who reigned over a golden age in Eire. "After their defeat at the _Battle of Tailteann_ the Tuatha simply vanished from these islands. Tradition and popular belief has it that the Tuatha, through their esoteric powers, became the _Sluagh Sidhe_ (The Fairy Host) and, taking their secrets and mysterious arts with them, entered an occult realm where they remain to this day."

Character names credited to Victor Hugo.

Title and chapter names credited to the band Horslips.

* * *

 **Part I: Daybreak**

* * *

" _I am a traveller. A wayfarer. I am one who began a journey long ago, yet failed to reach its end. I was upon this earth before, though never in this place. We live and die and are born to live again. And across the reach of time we live still, in so many other lives that truly we are all but one. One life in many forms. I am here to finish the journey that I once began, and to that same early purpose: To bring my fellow travellers home."_ _ **(Steve Augarde, Winter Wood).**_

* * *

"We are made of the stars and the sea", Azelma had told her once in a sing-song voice. "The stardust of the sky itself fell to the ocean and when it settled on the seabed it rose back up in human form."

But as Éponine gazes up at the boy who is weaving fiery words through the air, she thinks he is made of anything but dust and water. The crowd around her cheers and sparks kindle in his steely blue eyes, and the young girl almost believes he could breathe such fire as to set the whole city burning to the ground.

"Perhaps the ones who didn't make it the whole way to the surface became the merfolk, the ones mother told us about, who drown the sailors in their love. They sing to call their dear ones home."

Azelma had always had a longing for the poetic, and their younger days would often find the pair huddled together and poring over old books with strange pictures and gilt letters of little meaning. Unable to read it, Éponine would nestle her younger sister closer to her side and whisper her own tales, of brave knights and fair maidens and battles fought in the days long ago.

"To believe is the most important thing," she would tell her siblings. "Hope is what carries us through the darkness, at least until morning comes."

For many years Éponine subscribed to this mantra wholeheartedly, and she would often see the heroes of her stories repeatedly appear on the street outside her window, where beautifully dressed ladies would ride past in their carriages and gangs of men robbed the rich to feed the poor. Charity begins at home, her father would often declare, as he emptied his pockets of golden rings and leather wallets by the fireside of the tavern, treasures of another world she'd known only in her books. He'd celebrate his good luck by spending the remains of the money on his favourite bottle of liquor, the rent safely paid for another month and the children going barefoot for another two.

Not exactly the same as her fairytale endings, but awfully, terribly close.

Nowadays Éponine has little time for stories, and Azelma's old picture-books have long since served as fuel for the tavern fire in long winter nights.

She gazes curiously up at the podium where the two young students are waving their arms and shouting about things that she doesn't understand.

 _They are their own fairytale_ , she thinks wryly. _These bourgeois princes think they can save the world one unreadable leaflet at a time, but they are not warriors, they are children._

 _Don't they know we all turn to sea foam in the end anyway_?

She shakes her head, and turns away.

* * *

 **Part II: March Into Trouble**

* * *

" _Why is he weeping?" asked a little Green lizard, as he ran past with his tail in the air._

" _Why indeed?" said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after a sunbeam._

" _Why, indeed?" whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low voice._

" _He is weeping for a red rose," said the Nightingale._

" _For a red rose!" they cried; "how very ridiculous!"_

 _And the little Lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright._

 _ **(Oscar Wilde, The Nightingale and the Rose).**_

* * *

She would watch him from a distance in the Luxembourg gardens, her gaze soft and curious as he wrung a small white handkerchief between his fingers, glancing here and there across the flowerbeds at the early morning strollers and late night ramblers. In those early days of spring, when the heat of the sun seeped through the air to warm the ground beneath their feet and call the flowers to attention, he wore a near constant expression of misery, and it hurt the young gamine to see the distress painted so coarsely across his sweet features. The one he awaited seemed to slip through his fingertips like the handkerchief itself; the initials stamped upon the lace whispered over and over on his lips like a prayer.

They had met before, on a fateful day several months ago. It was his gentle demeanour and rosy cheeks that had startled her into dropping the wallet she had pulled lightly from his pocket. With a good natured laugh, he had emptied its entire contents into her hand. After that Éponine followed him wherever he went, listening to his naive bargaining with the merchants on the street as he tried to sell his belongings; books and pocket watches no longer of use but for reaping a modest living.

She saw the girl a few weeks after her first meeting with Marius, for that was his name according to Gavroche, who knew most comings and goings of the low society in Paris _("ain't sure what he's doing here mind, with those shiny buckles on his boots!")._

She was beautiful.

Golden curls fell in waves over a cloak of blue velvet and a warm sheepskin muff; face soft, lips red as a rose, her glance so very familiar.

 _No, it couldn't be._

Cosette traversed the street slowly, arm in arm with an older gentleman who was handing money to the poor who huddled in doorways, their hands clutching at his own in thanks.

Digging in her pockets, Éponine had pulled out the handful of small coins that Marius had given her upon their last meeting. " _For essentials_ ," he had whispered solemnly, his eyes kind.

She stared at her outstretched palm, the coins glinting in the sunlight, then back at the girl handing money to the poor.

 _What has become of me?_

* * *

Her heart leaps as a familiar wave of brown hair comes sweeping up the stairs.

"Marius, you're late!" "Enjolras reprimands sharply.

"You look like you've seen a ghost, Marius!"

Marius weaves his way to where the grim-faced leader now stands at a table in the centre of the room, surrounded by papers and plans.

Joly eyes his friend anxiously, exclaiming in a hushed voice, "You are rather pale, Marius. Are you unwell?"

"Perhaps."

Marius' eyes glaze over with a look that causes an uneasy stir in Éponine's heart and a fresh wave of frown-lines in Enjolras' forehead.

"What are you talking about?" he says sharply.

Sitting down in an empty seat, Marius heaves a sigh and rubs his eyes with tired hands.

"Nothing."

"You're sure you're not unwell?" Combeferre asks kindly.

"No, I've never felt anything like this before."

Rolling his eyes, Enjolras turns back to his papers; a callous gesture unmissed by Éponine, who represses a tug of annoyance.

"Wait - is Marius in love at last?" Grantaire cackles with glee as Marius blushes crimson and hangs his head. "How sweet!"

With a dramatic flourish, Grantaire pretends to swoon and loses his balance, stumbling backwards and knocking piles of paper from the table, earning an irritated glare from Enjolras.

"'Taire..." sighs Combeferre, scooping up handfuls of leftover leaflets. "Careful."

"It's almost midnight, time we stop all this nonsense and crack open a bottle of wine-"

"You've been drinking since noon," Enjolras growls through clenched teeth. "Either pay attention or go home –"

Grantaire pulls a face and jumps to a mock salute. "Yes sir – oh!"

Combeferre lunges to catch the candle knocked flying by Grantaire's hand, and the room erupts with angry voices.

"For goodness sake, Grantaire, I told you to be careful –"

"- never listen to me –"

" – waste of space –"

"- Listen! -"

"- feel a bit dizzy, I hope I haven't got Marius' complaint – "

" – drink elsewhere or get out –"

" _Listen everybody_!"

Courfeyrac's voice cuts sharply through the bickering students, and Éponine is surprised to see her brother at his side, solemn eyes shining in the light of the remaining candles.

"Go on," Courfeyrac urges, nudging the child forward.

Gavroche takes a deep breath, puffing out his chest with pride and importance, before delivering his fatal message. (Because for these kinds of things, you have to do it _just so_ ).

"General Lemarque is dead."

* * *

 **Part III: Trouble (With a Capital T)**

* * *

" _Enjolras!"_

 _He jerks his hand at the sudden reprimand and the pyramid of playing cards collapses onto the table._

 _The schoolmaster towers above him, cane in hand and glowering over half-moon spectacles which have now slid to a rest on the sharp ridge of his nose._

" _Were you listening to me?"_

" _Oui, Monsieur."_

" _Then where are your notes?" he scolds, pointing at the blank page lying on the desk in front of the young boy._

 _Enjolras winces as the schoolmaster gives him a sharp rap on the knuckles with his cane._

" _You must learn to focus, young man," he says sternly, shaking his head. "Dedicate yourself to your studies, or you'll end up on the streets like a pauper. The dishonour would destroy the family, and they've known enough shame in their time. Didn't your mother warn you? Didn't your father teach you right? When a traitor comes begging, the people turn their backs. Your mother is adamant you shall not share in her brother's fate. Now. We shall proceed."_

 _The schoolmaster turns back to the blackboard and continues to spell out an extensive list of Latin verbs._

 _Looking wistfully out of the window, Enjolras silently curses his estranged uncle for obliging him to endure such a lecture; not to mention his mother for causing him to miss out on this glorious summer's day in the first place._

 _With a scowl, he reluctantly picks up his long-forgotten pen and underlines the date._

 _June 6_ _th_ _, 1823._

* * *

 **To Be Continued.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Part IV: The Power and The Glory**

* * *

" _Be happy," cried the Nightingale, "Be happy; you shall have your red rose. I will build it out of moonlight by music, and stain it with my own heart's blood. All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though she is wise, and mightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame-coloured are his wings, and coloured like flame is his body. His lips are sweet as honey, and his breath is like frankincense."_

 _..._

" _And when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to the Rose tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life blood ebbed away from her."_

 _ **(Oscar Wilde, The Nightingale and the Rose).**_

* * *

Despite her cynicism, Éponine is curious, and on the day of the funeral she finds herself side by side with Courfeyrac as the masses gather noisily behind them.

The people have been arriving since dawn, in hopes to secure a good view of the cortege as it passes by, that they may bid a respectful farewell to the man who had inspired them, spoken for them and dedicated his life to their welfare.

Éponine knows little of politics, save for her father's business transactions and days spent haggling for loaves of bread. Her knuckles brush against Courfeyrac's wrist as the funeral drums sound low in the distance, and such an uneasy tension ripples through the crowd that for a moment she thinks, _yes, perhaps you can pull this_ _off_.

Having guaranteed her a spot at the front of the crowds, Gavroche now sits atop his makeshift abode, high above the rooftops and grinning down at the swarms of people below him.

 _Hats off to old Bonaparte,_ he thinks, swinging his legs freely through the air.

The elephant stands tall, majestic and imposing.

Gavroche offers a happy wave to his sister.

* * *

 _She had not had long to admire her brother's sweet courage, nor to pretend her heart was not warmed by Enjolras' apparent affection for the boy; for the night before the funeral Marius had pulled her aside and requested she lead him to the residence of the girl and the old gentleman. Rebellion had instilled in him a fierce wave of courage, and he had vowed to find Cosette before battle began and all chance may be lost. Unable to deny him, Éponine had led him with a heavy heart to the Rue Plumet, and watched them fall in love._

 _Afterwards, she had found a letter placed carefully between the railings of the garden, addressed to Marius and in neat little handwriting that could only be_ hers _._

 _She had pocketed it._

* * *

They are lined up, and Combeferre thinks fondly of the toy soldiers that once stood along the windowsill of his childhood nursery, painted uniforms shining brightly in the hazy sunshine. Today, even in the shadow of the elephant in the square, Enjolras shines brighter than them all, his golden locks curled in a halo above the striking red jacket and polished boots. He stands tall and proud, and so still that to passers-by he may well seem a statue, an illustration from a child's storybook, inanimate but for the strange light in his eye that speaks of events to come.

'Ferre straightens a little and catches the eye of one of the women lined up opposite, offering her an encouraging smile.

 _Pretty maids all in a row_ , _indeed_.

As the cortege advances solemnly towards where they stand, Éponine can feel the stirrings of the crowd, and when at last Enjolras raises the flag and all hell breaks loose, she fancies she can hear birdsong rising above the thundering din of war drums, higher than the angry voices raised in a chorus of revolutionary song. She stumbles alongside the coffin and lifts her eyes skyward to where he is, standing defiant and so, so sure beside Enjolras. Never once letting her eye leave Marius, the gamine clutches the letter tightly inside the pocket of her coat, that she might squeeze the very ink from its pages. _May as well try taking blood from a stone._

And then they are running, in all directions it seems, and Éponine lets her legs carry her where they will. Eyes searching desperately for her brother amid the commotion, she catches a glimpse of shocking red and follows the rabble down the frenzied cobbled street, dodging chairs and bullets, chests and mattresses that tumble and crash from overhead.

 _(Look, look, the sky is falling! I saw it with my eyes, I heard it with my ears. We will run, run and tell the King!)_

The storm clouds gather and the rampart rises, and it isn't long before the bullets rain once more, as the barricade faces its first attack from the National Guard. The world is in chaos, and the students are scattering in terror. Amongst a few others, only Enjolras and Marius remain obstinate, fixed to their spot and oblivious to the slender figure picking her way across the rampart, cap pulled down low across her eyes and oversized coat billowing as she runs.

Marius lunges across the barricade, arms reaching desperately for a barrel of gunpowder that teeters on the edge of a large wooden chest.

There is a glint of light in the corner of her eye, and she sees a musket raised with only one purpose.

She jumps, for what is and what was, and what could have been.

* * *

The pain is not so bad, and she is half aware of concerned voices filling the air around her.

She feels herself lifted from the stony ground by a pair of strong arms, and the world darkens once more.

* * *

" _Men command the world that they know," she says, "Everything that men know they make their own. Everything that they learn, they claim for themselves. They are like the alchemists who look for the laws that govern the world, and then want to own them and keep them secret. Everything they discover, they hug to themselves, they shape knowledge into their own selfish image. What is left to us women, but the realms of the unknown?"_

 _ **(Philippa Gregory, The Lady of the Rivers).**_

* * *

 **Part V: The Rocks Remain**

* * *

" _We each of us have many lives, so many that truly there is but one life that we are all a part of. We are all one. I am the fly upon my own cheek, and in another life I watch myself through his eye. Wherever we look we see only ourselves. You will see me again, and I you."_

 _ **(Steve Augarde, Winter Wood).**_

* * *

She opens her eyes to the harsh light of day.

Above her head, a cool breeze flows in through the open window and caresses Éponine's cheek, sending wisps of hair fluttering across her eyes, tangling in her eyelashes.

A heavy coat is draped across her slight form, hanging loosely off the bony shoulders that protrude from her all-too-visible collarbone. She hastily reaches into the pocket and lets out a low groan of pain which quickly turns to a sigh of relief as she finds the letter still there, tucked neatly and safely out of sight.

Sinking back against the thin pillows behind her, Éponine closes her eyes – they fly open again when she hears a soft rustle near the foot of her bed.

She looks up to see a figure standing at the bookcase, his back turned to her, book open in hand and flicking lightly through its pages. For a moment she feels nothing but anger as she stares at the back of his head, curls just touching the top of his collar, and her fingernails claw the bedsheets in a vicelike grip.

 _He who made you bitter made you wise._

The young man stays absorbed in his book, unaware of the eyes scrutinising him, growing narrower with every passing moment.

* * *

 _She had watched him on many nights, huddled in a shadowy corner of the Café Musain, her hair swept beneath a hat in a desperate attempt to go unnoticed. The candlelight glowed invitingly through the rain-washed windows, beyond which all of Paris lay engulfed by the dark night._

 _They were almost laughable, as they organised and cheered and planned a new world in that crowded little room. Still, it was warm in the cafe, and beat having to drain her boots of muddy rainwater at bedtime._

 _The gamine had confronted the red-coated leader after one of the particularly intense meetings, when his naive words had become too much to ignore and his arrogance had struck a chord. Marching straight up to him in the dim hallway and jabbing her finger into the centre of his chest, he had flinched in astonishment, and she'd almost laughed outright but for the proud rage swelling in her chest._

" _We don't need your pity, or your help," she had snapped._

" _So how exactly do you plan to make a living?"_

" _I have my ways."_

 _He'd raised an eyebrow at the insinuation and given her a stern look._

" _I simply wish to help your situation to the benefit of all citizens-"_

" _That's not your concern."_

 _The normally composed leader had stared at her, his cheeks reddening beneath her glower._

" _Your arrogance suits you monsieur," she'd spat at him, "and you're a fool if you think you can change anything."_

 _As she had turned to walk away, he'd caught her elbow firmly and hauled her back to face him._

" _No,_ mademoiselle _."_

 _She had flinched at the emphasis, cursing the transparency of her disguise._

" _I have as much right to my beliefs as you do to your misery. Resist my help if you must, accept Marius' money if you choose, but don't let pride be the plight of your people."_

 _And he'd left her there, the ghost of his touch burning through her sleeve to her skin._

* * *

Suddenly, silence will not do.

"What are you reading?" She says, loudly and lightly.

He starts, and spins around, closing the book with a snap.

"You are awake, mademoiselle."

"Either that or I make a better orator in sleep than you do awake."

His jaw clenches at the jape.

"Are you feeling any better?" he asks through tightly clamped teeth.

"Fit as a fiddle."

His eyes narrow. "Joly says you're to stay abed until you're strong enough to leave. He's offered to escort you home and provide further treatment for your wounds once you're there."

Biting back an angry retort, she folds her arms, resolved to let an icy silence do her talking.

"Fine," he shrugs, turning to leave.

"Wait!"

"Mademoiselle?"

The shock of yesterday's events finally hits her, and Éponine's eyes brim with tears as she reaches once more into the overcoat.

"Please. Give this to him, to Marius," she says quietly, holding the letter aloft for him to take. "It belongs to him."

An odd expression smooths the lines of his face, and Enjolras draws away as he did before, closing the door softly behind him.

* * *

 **To Be Continued.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Part VI: Dusk**

* * *

" _Yet surely there are men who have made their art out of no tragic war, lovers of life, impulsive men that look for happiness and sing when they have found it."_

 ** _(_** _ **William Butler Yeats , Ego Dominus Tuus).**_

* * *

"To freedom!"

Grantaire shouts, takes a hearty swig of drink and falls back against an old and battered piano; its keys jingle and jangle noisily, echoing across their portion of the silent street. Madame Hucheloup would not be best pleased to know that he had ransacked her oldest and most expensive collection, and Combeferre sternly tells him as much.

"Oh lighten up! Who says we can't have a bit of fun tonight? Who knows, it could be our last chance!"

Grantaire winks at him over the top of the bottle of brandy.

The students are gathered around the barricade by the light of a few flickering torches, casting long shadows upon the walls of the surrounding houses which stand silent and sure in the gathering darkness. The smoke from their pipes and cigars floats above their heads, the lights of the first twinkling stars _just_ visible through the haze.

"What a lovely night for a singsong-"

"We are _not_ singing, 'Taire."

" _Spoilsport_."

Jehan murmurs quietly from his spot upon the seat of an old wooden rocking chair, swinging his legs back and forth as though to make up for the loss of the chair's. " _In the shade, from the dawn's tears is made a perfume sweet and strange, amber and honey sweet."_

"That's beautiful, Jehan, did you write that yourself?"

The poet turns to Grantaire, ignoring the sniggering of his friends around him and the gentle _tutting_ of Combeferre. "Just a rhyme I've had in my head for a while, 'Taire. I read it once…I can't remember where."

From the doorway of the cafe, Enjolras watches as his friends chatter, and joke, and laugh; as they softly hum the choruses of old songs and occasionally raise their drinks in toast. Letting his mind stray, he thinks of the girl upstairs in the Musain, weak yet oh, so strong, and determined to boot. _What a waste, to spend one's life chasing a dream._ (He casts the thought from his mind as quickly as it arrives).

Squinting through the darkness, Enjolras' eyes come to a rest on Marius, who also sits a little way from the group, lost in thought. He looks so dejected that Enjolras almost feels remorse for his anger during the incident with the gunpowder. It is short-lived however, as Marius reaches into his trouser pocket and proceeds to sit and flick Cosette's letter over and over in his hands. With a stab of annoyance, whether for himself or for Éponine, Enjolras begins to regret handing it over to him.

Grantaire's voice rings out over the deserted street, warm and merry with alcohol, and Enjolras wrinkles his nose in disgust as the cynic slurs a speech to an audience who are by now half-asleep.

"My friends! Tomorrow we restore France to all her rightful g-glory! I challenge them all, not by the sword or the g-gun, but by the bottle; I shall – _hic_! - _drink_ them all to the death, for then death is sweet and I welcome it. _Hic_! Th-that's why I s-say now, to friendship! Here's to you!"

"I thought it was 'to freedom'?" Enjolras asks coldly.

"That as well."

"You've had too much, Grantaire. Go home, I've had enough of this foolishness. This is a battle, not a drinking competition."

"In my new free world, there shall be drinking competitions from dawn until dusk, and _hic_! - at night as well."

Grantaire takes a long swig of alcohol, and Enjolras turns away.

" _That_ is not the freedom we fight for."

His heart heavy, Grantaire watches his leader's retreating form and sighs. "There are different kinds of freedom."

He raises the bottle to his lips once more.

* * *

 **Part VII: Sword of Light**

* * *

 _Marius seeks out the urchin as the last light is fading and the night's first stars are shimmering faintly in the sky. The child is perched inside an empty chest where Madame Hucheloup_ _once kept her best and oldest collection of wines. The young man can't help but smile as he spots the boy, but his heart pangs with something like fear. A barricade is no place for a child, and whilst Gav has certainly proved useful, Marius wonders for how long Enjolras will humour the boy before sending him on his way._

" _Gavroche."_

 _Marius approaches, and the urchin beams a wide toothy grin._

" _You know this city, don't you?"_

" _Better'n any other."_

" _I need you to do something for me. A favour."_

" _Anything for you, Marius. Without you, I'd have bitten the dust."_

" _You know the Rue de l'Homme Arme?"_

 _Gavroche nods, and Marius hands him a sealed letter._

" _Keep your head low, stay in the shadows and come straight back, you understand?"_

 _With a grin and a skip, Gavroche runs off into the growing dark, and his light footsteps are soon beyond earshot._

 _With a sigh, Marius returns to the barricade and his laughing friends, Cosette's own rain-stained letter held tightly in his fist._

* * *

The old man's warning goes over his head, and he returns to the barricade at a run, dodging through alleyways and leaping across puddles with Monsieur Fauchelevant's coin in his hand and a song in his heart.

 _A battlefield is no place for a child._

The Chief would agree, but Enjolras is not the boss of him and Gavroche will be damned if he misses out on all the fun.

* * *

 _"The knight left his horse behind with his comrades, and followed her tracks on foot through the forest, a burning torch held before him, calling her name; calling her name over and over. The forest was unearthly at night; once he caught a glimpse of bright dark eyes and stepped back with an oath, and then saw the pale rump of a deer slide away into the shadows."_

 _ **(Philippa Gregory, The Lady of the Rivers).**_

* * *

 **To Be Continued.**


End file.
